


The Gift that Keeps on Giving

by EventHorizon



Category: Sherlock (TV), Sherlock Holmes & Related Fandoms
Genre: Don't copy to another site, M/M, Soulmates, mystrade, pre-Mystrade
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-02-15
Updated: 2020-03-13
Packaged: 2021-02-28 00:27:31
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 4
Words: 18,620
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/22744762
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/EventHorizon/pseuds/EventHorizon
Summary: Greg usually disliked his particular gift as it was never wrong, he couldn't shut it off, and it had as much power to bring misery to people as it did joy.  Naturally, because his luck demanded nothing less, it had to fail him completely when a certain elegant man strolled into his office with a gleam in his gorgeous eyes...
Relationships: Mycroft Holmes & Greg Lestrade, Mycroft Holmes/Greg Lestrade
Comments: 185
Kudos: 506
Collections: Mystrade Soulmates Week 2020, TDQ_Sherlock





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> A little something for the Mystrade Soulmates celebration...

“Smile, Greg. Someone’s giving you the eye…”

Greg shoved Anderson with just short of the strength required to spill his ridiculous arse off the desk and onto the floor, but enough to drive home the point that he was, in any and all things, a prick.

“Exactly the same as every new face we have here for more than a week.”

“Yeah, but you never know. This eye might be a ‘well, he’s old and rumpled and probably smells like an old and rumpled person, but it’s been long enough since I’ve gotten a little that I could lower my standards sufficiently to agree to a fast and filthy shag’ sort of look.”

“Funny. And I bet you a fiver it’s not, since I saw her whispering with Dimmock this morning and she’s avoided coming near my desk ever since.”

“Did I forget to mention the smelly old person part?”

“Just as funny as before. Meaning, not at all.”

Anderson chuckled, but gave a private mental pat on the shoulder to his DI who had to go through this every time a new person was added to their cozy ranks. It didn’t take more than a few days for someone to mention Greg’s… little secret… and that would spark another few days of furtive glances, hesitant attempts to make conversation and other bits of wiffling and waffling before the person finally made up their minds about what to do. Which, to add to Greg’s social agony, ran about a 90% chance of deciding _to_ ask The Question. It deserved the mental capitalization, too. That wasn’t a bit of drama on his part, though it sometimes felt that way when he was there watching the dithering and wiffling in its full-color glory.

“Know what _is_ funny? I actually have a wager on with John that Sherlock’s going to be arrested sometime in the next three days.”

“Oh god… what bone’s he got between his teeth now?”

“The Grunner murder. He’s been constructing all sorts of things he believes might have been the weapon we can’t identify and has been floating mentions of doing a bit of practical testing for wound configurations and trace-evidence deposition. He’s going to stab people.”

“No, he won’t. What he may do, though, is steal from a butcher what he feels is a close-enough human analogue and stab that, instead.”

“He’s not very subtle when he’s off thieving, Greg. You know that as well as I do. Hence my wager with John who stupidly believes the berk will actually avoid being caught this time. I, however, have far more faith in Sherlock’s blinkered focus once again delivering him into our merrily waiting arms. Before three days have passed, so I get my twenty quid. That’s the most important bit. Uh oh, places everybody… looks like the show is about to start…”

Anderson hopped off Greg’s desk and strolled away, leaving Greg alone to sigh softly in resignation as he listened to the tentative footsteps coming up behind him.

“Detective Inspector Lestrade?”

“Yes, Detective Sergeant Palmer?”

“Ummm… I was hoping… that is, I hoped to ask… you see, there’s a question that’s been bothering me and…”

“No.”

“What?”

“You don’t.”

“Really?”

“I’m never wrong. None of us are.”

“Oh. Oh, thank god… I was so worried! I met someone, you see, and we’re getting a bit serious… I truly think I love him and…”

“I hope things work out for you. One problem you won’t have to worry about, though, is a soulmate popping up at some point and spoiling what you have.”

“Brilliant! Jacob went to one of those people you pay to ask, but I… oh, I just didn’t know what to do and…”

“It’s your lucky day, then. Good news and not a farthing did it cost you. Now… anything else?”

Greg tried to keep the weariness out of his voice and a genial smile on his face while the young sergeant drew her happy thoughts together.

“Oh, yes, actually. The Stubbs file. For you.”

Handing over the thick folder, the footsteps that had cautiously approached him, gleefully sped back the other direction and Greg was simply proud that he didn’t use the fat file to smack himself repeatedly in the face.

Soulmates were bollocks, they really were. To him, at least. Not many people were designed to have one, from what the scientists said. Neurochemistry and magnetic fields and whatever other fiddly things he couldn’t be bothered to pay attention to in school and fewer still… far, far fewer… had the ability to know when a person had the fiddlies so there existed in the world somewhere a soulmate to call their own. Most of the far, far fewer made a living off the talent. There was an official testing program and, if you passed, you could open a business where people paid you, usually loads, to get the news one way or another. He hadn’t wanted any part of that, not one teeny tiny bit, when he crossed the puberty mark and began noticing things about certain people that he couldn’t explain. It wasn’t a sight, smell, sound, feel or taste. It wasn’t even a sense, per se. It was more a completely unsensed moment of certainty about whether or not the person you were facing had or didn’t have a soulmate that made people like him either adored or despised. It depended on the news you got when you asked the question and if it was what you wanted to hear.

Most people had no idea how they’d respond to knowing one way or the other, so never asked. Why would you? Even if you know you had a soulmate out there, the chances were good you’d never find them. There were services, of course. Websites where you could sign up and go to parties with others who’d identified as having a soulmate and see if you found your destined match. It was big business! Local groups, international… people looking for that fairy tale ending that brought them true happiness and eternal love and all the other rubbish that got tossed about in the promotional literature.

In truth, it wasn’t so clean and simple. Soulmates were people, first and foremost. Some were good and kind, others weren’t. Some were honest, others not so much. Some ambitious, some lazy. It wasn’t a guarantee that your soulmate would be the storybook-perfect person the average citizen imagined and secretly dreamed of finding one day. You could have your heart captured forever by someone that, in the end, you didn’t like very much. And that was only one of the problems with asking The Question.

If you learned you _did_ have one, what do you do? Go off searching? Pay the fucking fortune it might take to find that person when you could have used the time and money to grow a wonderful relationship with someone you met at the pub and genuinely thought could give you a happy and fulfilling life after you’d gotten to know them? And what if you learned you _didn’t_ have one? The fantasy was officially dead. Those occasional, whimsical moments of ‘what if’ that couldn’t exist anymore because they _couldn’t_ exist and now your life had a little less, albeit imaginary, magic in it.

Of course, there was always the danger, in not knowing, that you found your soulmate after you’d built a life with that person from the pub and then what did you do? From what he’d observed, you agonized until it tore you apart, taking your life with it. Your soulmate wants to spend their lives with you, your spouse or significant other did, too, and maybe you had a preference, but… one of those poet types had said it was ‘foul, fiendish and fated to deliver naught but a fall’ and he couldn’t say the chap was wrong. Not for everyone, of course, because many of those finding their soulmate got their fantasy and fairy tale and were ecstatic for it. For the unlucky rest, though… well, today someone had gotten good news and that was a blessing. Two people knowing they could live and love without worry. At least, not about that part. Finances, philandering and all the other things that brought a relationship to ruin, but not a fucking soulmate waltzing in and wanting a word with the manager.

“That went well.”

“Spying isn’t pretty, Anderson, but since nothing about you is pretty, it stands to reason.”

“I still say you should have a side business doing your magic trick. I’m tired of paying for pints when you could fund yours, mine and half the division’s with a bit of side work that you can do sitting on your arse.”

And deal with the daily worry about ruining someone’s life? Not in a million years.

“Cheap fucker.”

“I am not cheap to fuck, I’ll have you know.”

“I do know. Your sex price sheet is posted in the break room with the other takeaway menus.”

“Nothing wrong with a spot of advertising.”

“There is when what’s being advertised is sex with you.”

“You won’t use your talent to earn a bit of extra cash, but I’m not that shortsighted.”

“Do I even need to make a joke about anyone wanting sex with you would have to _be_ shortsighted?”

“Nah, I saw the setup coming, but went with it anyway.”

“Quality comedy takes risks.”

“And mine are riskier than most.”

__________

“Greg… there’s… there’s someone here to see you.”

The only time Anderson’s voice was both serious and trepidatious was when the ‘someone here to see you’ was on the important end of the professional or social stick, so Greg made certain to give his tie and the papers on his desk a quick straightening before Anderson got the nod to show in the stick in question.

Who nearly gave him a heart attack. Which, at his age, wasn’t something to joke about!

Tall, aristocratic, gorgeous eyes, immaculately dressed and… a mystery. A complete and utter mystery. Every new person he met, he knew right away if they had a soulmate, but… not him. Not the slightest glimmer of an inkling of a hint of a whisper. Nothing. Was this what it was like for everyone else meeting someone new? And why was _he_ being stared at by Mr. Mystery? Did he…

“There’s something on my face, isn’t there?”

That, at least snapped his visitor out of staring, though the face gave away nothing about what the man was thinking.

“Not… not that I am able to discern. Detective Inspector Lestrade?”

“Who? I mean, yes! Yes, that’s me. Greg Lestrade, at your service. Have a seat?”

“I prefer to stand.”

After looking at the chair on that side of his desk, which had a stack of folders on it, as well as a plastic fork for some unknown reason, Greg understood why. Shit, the fork didn’t even look clean…

“I can’t blame you, so I’ll stand, too. It’s polite! And that’s me. Mr. Polite to my friends.”

“How… tragic, for you.”

Mystery Man had a point. And he’d done the sharpening and into-the-brain inserting himself. That _was_ tragic.

“Sorry. Really I am. Had a bit on my mind and it got a little fuddled when Anderson announced you. Let me clear off the chair and we can have a seat and chat, what say.”

I’ll even give the sitting part a bit of a brushing off to show I value the sanctity of your bottom. Which, even from this angle, appears to be a smashing example of the species.

“I… very well. Thank you. I am here to discuss a matter of some importance, so… are you alright, Detective Inspector?”

Greg stopped wriggling in his newly-taken chair and wondered when he’d had the start of a conversation go so horribly awry. And, of course the awrying had to happen with someone who looked as delicious as this bloke!

“Yeah, just… had an itch. Up there between the shoulders when you can’t really reach it for a good scratch. I can’t, at least. I’m sure some can, limber buggers, but these arms of mine aren’t designed to bend like that to…”

The man was staring again. At least it wasn’t in complete disgust. That was decent of him.

“Sorry. You were saying?”

“Yes… very well. I shall get straight to the point. My name is Mycroft Holmes and…”

“No.”

“Pardon?”

“You’re Mycroft Holmes?”

“Since birth.”

“But…”

“Shall your remark center upon my not being fat or some form of supernatural hellbeast?”

“Ummmm…. you left out monk with a ham around his neck instead of a cross.”

“Delightful. I am happy to see my brother’s nonsense has not stagnated in creativity.”

“His creative nonsense is top notch, no question about it. But… ummm…”

WHY ARE YOU A FUCKING BLANK IN MY MIND!

“What can I do to help you, sir? Would I be off the mark if I guessed this has something to do with Sherlock?”

“You have hit the target squarely, Detective Inspector. I am concerned about a certain direction of my brother’s… work… and I hope to solicit your assistance in bringing it to an end.”

“Please don’t tell me he actually _did_ start stabbing people? I’ll have to arrest him and it’s been four days so Anderson loses twenty pounds.”

“Amusing, though replete with nonsense to continue the apparent theme of this conversation.”

“I’m sorry, sir. Really, I am. It’s just that John was worried about certain experiments, and…”

“Yes, the Grunner killing. Fortunately, the good doctor shared his concerns with me and I had delivered to Baker Street a suitable victim to forestall an actual mayhem spree or clumsy thievery that would make my life even more burdened than it now stands.”

“Not if that victim was human, sir.”

“A range of products from the butcher, ensuring both Sherlock’s test materials and a full freezer of meat for Mrs. Hudson. Such was her gratitude that she failed to remark on the rather… murdered… state of her gifts. In fact, she was quite pleased that some of the tougher specimens were now rendered into smaller, more tender pieces for her cookpot.”

You are gorgeous, smart and funny. And completely opaque to me. Are you a mutant, sir? Space alien? I’ve thought similar about Sherlock and now I think I was wrong to push those fancies aside.

“I usually give flowers or sweets to the older ladies, but now I may take a page from your book, since my mum always appreciated a nice bit of stew on a cold evening. So… back to your little problem?”

“Ah, yes. While Sherlock has curtailed his homicidal urges for theory testing; he has ventured into a more pernicious arena and it is one I cannot permit.”

“Ok… what?”

“Eugene Grunner was a contemptible man, however, he had his various uses for those who knew the necessary levers to pull to set those uses in motion. Sherlock is widening his scope of inquiry into areas that… let us say, they are not to the advantage of… certain interests. His ears are deaf to my words, but he may pay more heed to yours.”

“I doubt that, actually, but I’m more concerned about the fact there might be other channels to explore for this case than I realized.”

“They are not channels open to you, Detective Inspector.”

That was a very menacing voice you used, Mr. Holmes. The fact it made my cock tingle is not something I wish to dwell upon at the moment, though the dwelling _will_ commence once I’m tucked into bed for the night.

“If it impacts an open case, I beg to differ.”

“The matters in question are not relevant to his death.”

“I don’t know that.”

“I do.”

“Which, I’m sorry to say, sir, isn’t relevant to me. If there are leads to pursue, it’s my duty to pursue them.”

“If a man enjoys coffee, does it have bearing on the fact a maniac bludgeoned him to death with a cricket bat?”

“Depends. Was the maniac a disgruntled coffee vendor, set off by a memory of his coffee-drinking dad who used to beat him, had his wife leave him for someone who loved a good cup of coffee in the morning…”

“The straws at which you are grasping are both thin and friable.”

“You didn’t say nonsensical.”

“That went _without_ saying.”

“Meaning you have no ready rebuttal and I’m right.”

“That does not follow in the slightest.”

“It follows in the… what’s the opposite of slightest?”

“Greatest?”

“Nah, that doesn’t sound right.”

“Largest, then.”

“No, still sounds wrong. It follows in the… hugest. That’s a word, right?”

“It is, though I now am considering having it struck from the OED the moment this conversation ends.”

“Because I win.”

“Good heavens… you are incorrigible.”

“Dogged. You mean dogged. It’s a talent.”

“If I assure you that what Sherlock is investigating does not bear upon your case, will that suffice to let the proverbial sleeping dogs lie?”

“Nope.”

“Detective Inspector!”

“But… if you give me a bit more information, then I can make that assessment on my own. And, in the spirit of cooperation, I’ll do what I can to pull Sherlock off your neck.”

“You refuse to simply leave this alone?”

“The barn door can’t be closed after the horse has escaped, sir.”

“It can, in point of fact.”

“Oh. Yeah, you’re right. I’ll think of something not as daft while you give me a summary of matters. I can do that! Multitasking with my brain is another talent and one, unlike most of my talents, I’m proud to claim.”

Greg grinned and found himself not minding that the most mysterious mystery of his whole life was sitting in front of him trying to set his hair on fire with the power of his ferocious glare. His ferociously _sexy_ glare. This Mycroft Holmes was nothing like Sherlock described and that was the greatest thing in the world, in his newfound opinion. Given Sherlock wasn’t likely to be murdered in the near future by anyone, except John, might this mean more chances to meet and talk to the tall, sexy enigma with the cock-tingling voice of menace? Whose world-weary intake of breath signaled this smelly, old copper was about to get a little information on his case? Today was turning out to be a good one, after all…

__________

“I expect your report at the earliest possible opportunity, Detective Inspector.”

“Not a problem. I’ll handle things personally and make certain you’re kept apprised of anything I learn.”

“I am not at all content with this, however, if it is the only method by which I can secure your assistance…”

“Since it’s the only reason you came to my office today, it does make sense.”

“… then I will await your call. Be aware, though, I do expect results. If I do not hear from you in a suitable amount of time, I will take matters into my own hands to learn of your progress.”

“Meaning?”

Mycroft simply turned and walked away down the corridor, well aware of the eyes on his back and the inevitable grin accompanying that pair of eyes.

“There you are.”

At least his brother had the presence of mind to remain out of sight and not begin his interrogation while Gregory was observing his exit.

“Where else would I be?”

“A cake shop.”

“Of course.”

“Well?”

“Well what?”

“You know very well what!”

Mycroft continued walking sedately through the building and towards the waiting car, savoring Sherlock’s continued simmering until they were on their way into London traffic.

“I was right, wasn’t I, Mycroft… your continued refusal to give me satisfaction stands as proof enough, but I prefer to hear it from your own peevish mouth.”

“Very well. Yes, Gregory is soulmate sensitive, which you already knew, so I fail to comprehend your agitation over my delayed confirmation of your knowledge.”

“Pfft. As if that was the reason you were there. I was _right_. You think yourself inscrutable but are, in reality, as transparent as glass when you are… discombobulated.”

“For what reason? Soulmate sensitives are not as rare as the public would choose to believe.”

“You were the only I ever met until Lestrade.”

“You are notoriously antisocial, brother, so that is not a revelation towards… well, anything, really beyond your knowing the scantest of handfuls of people in this world.”

“If you experienced nothing during your meeting, you would have stated so plainly.”

“But I did! I experienced a level of frustration and irritation nearly of the quantity I gain when interacting with you.”

“And gained a soulmate.”

Mycroft cut steely eyes at Sherlock who chortled loudly. His theory _had_ been correct! And it was positively delicious watching his brother pathetically trying to deny the fact.

“You are insane.”

“I am vindicated, you mean. Lestrade clearly reacts when you are engaging in your scurrilous spying and are in the vicinity, though he cannot see you. The old records declare that a sign of a bond between soulmate sensitives.”

“Old records? Great-great-great-great-grandmother’s witchcraft ledgers?”

“She may have been a witch, or what she believed a witch, but she was also an observant scientist. She documented everything, including her responses to her spouse, another soulmate sensitive, before and after they met. Lestrade was blank as a sheet of unlined paper, I wager. Our ancestor said you would not be able to know a thing of him and his soulmate status if you, yourselves, were a pair. No, don’t bother to answer; I have no desire to hear your lies. Take off your clothes.”

Mycroft didn’t even consider responding, because it was growing ever more difficult to maintain his composure with Sherlock nattering away in his ear.

He had a soulmate. And had found him. Of course, he had shared his brother’s suspicions, but would never admit them aloud for fear of… this, in truth. Sherlock’s ridiculous crowing and infantile demands. And, of course, what it meant that he, Mycroft Holmes, had a soulmate. Someone ravishingly handsome, kind-hearted, virtuous yet scandalously virile in presentation… the sort of man who could enjoy the company of countless individuals far more vibrant and exciting than the man sitting here slapping away his brother’s hands from his buttons.

“For pity’s sake, Sherlock!”

“Where is your mark?”

On my back. And, yes, what a… joy… it was to watch Gregory scratch his back against his chair the moment the mark appeared. The very same moment he felt his own emblazoning itself on his skin.

“That is quite enough, Sherlock! Leave my garments as they are.”

“If it is in an obvious location, you would be fighting all the harder. Good…”

What?

“Explain.”

“If the location is not obvious, then there is a chance Lestrade will not immediately notice it. That provides me further opportunity to study this phenomenon before you enact your ghastly body upon him in a fit of middle-aged coital lust.”

“I shall not be engaging in physical relations with Gregory, Sherlock, so your observational window is unlimited. No, I rescind that, for it is unquestionable that Gregory will… react, I suppose is the best term… when he discovers he bears a soul mark.”

“Lestrade is a typical troglodyte. He will be eager to drag you by the hair to his cave for sexual depravity.”

“I find that unlikely.”

“I can attest, though prolonged proximity that, yes, he is in fact a troglodyte.”

“Foolish boy.”

“But correct. Now that have settled that matter…”

“A debatable point. In any case why would he know to drag _me_?”

Sherlock opened his mouth, then snapped it shut. Then opened it again.

“Who else would he drag?”

“You assume I shall inform him of our bond.”

“I assume that, yes. It is… no. No, do _not_ tell me you are considering concealing your soul bond from him.”

“The bond I, ultimately, cannot conceal from him, but the person who sits at the other end of it, I can. And will.”

“Unacceptable.”

“Perfectly acceptable. Consider the situation, brother. Gregory is… he is a contented, middle-aged man with a cadre of friends and acquaintances who provide him companionship and sources of entertainment to enrich his life. I certainly cannot offer him anything of the sort. Further, my position would make him a target. A potential leverage point that could endanger him, something I cannot allow.”

“I am a leverage point and you have never attempted to keep our relationship a secret.”

“That would be difficult, as you well know, given your tendency to arrive unannounced in my office, regardless of who I am already meeting and the legion of security personnel racing behind you in your wake.”

Sherlock sat quietly a moment, then several moments longer as he studied his brother with a new thought swirling in his brain.

“You do not think yourself worthy of him.”

Sighing loudly, Mycroft gazed out the window for awhile before answering his brother’s question.

“That is not precisely the trajectory of my thinking. ‘Worth’ is a difficult term to quantify and I do not think it applies here. It is more… we are both set in our ways, Sherlock. With established lives that do not, in any manner, run parallel. If we were younger, with time to grow a life together, I would, perhaps, look upon things differently. What now would be accomplished by this revelation?”

“You both gaining someone to love.”

“Love is not sufficient a reason to upend one’s entire existence.”

“Lestrade might feel differently.”

“And he might feel that the man he met in his office is not to his taste, works hours that are uncharitable to a lover, can be short of temper and scathing of tongue.”

“And you might, surely will, find minor matters about him that nettle, as well, however, Grandmother Agatha claimed that the bond between soulmate sensitives was particularly strong and… fulfilling.”

“Because that was the bond she claimed to share with her husband. Really, Sherlock, relying on heavily biased data for your hypothesis…”

“Then prove me wrong. He will know that, somehow, he has found a soulmate. Despite being a plodding troglodyte, Lestrade is not stupid, nor untalented at his job. Do you believe he cannot fathom out on his own to whom he is bonded, given your sudden appearance in his life? An appearance that immediately preceded the emergence of his mark? Wherever it might be and you are a completely bounder not letting me see so that I can document it fully, as well as any changes that might occur through the process of fully accepting your soulmate into your life.”

Snarling slightly for no particular reason other than it was always an acceptable riposte to his brother’s nonsense, Mycroft returned to looking out of the window and, in a rare concession to whimsy, allowed his mind to explore the idea of… loving Gregory. He had agreed to Sherlock’s playacting scheme purely to satisfy his own curiosity, which had originally been fueled by a sensation of… happiness… whenever the Detective Inspector was present. He had taken pains to remain hidden, however, out of worry, to be truthful, but he could not help but notice the small changes in Gregory that indicated his own spirit was uplifted during those times. The man smiled. Which was not an easy thing to do when Sherlock was braying in your face about this or that perceived failure or slight on your part.

Neither of them was a fresh-faced young man anymore. Both of them had careers they would never wish to sacrifice. They shared, as far as he knew, few, if any, common interests or personal tastes. But, to continue his streak of mental honesty, he had never had a reason to verify that firsthand and the only evidence in his possession to support his claim was that _he_ claimed it. That was nothing if not pathetic, but his instincts were rarely wrong about such things.

His instincts, though, had never been applied to a situation such as this. What he did know about the man made him… desirable. Both as a lover and a companion in life. Someone to share quiet moments at home, enjoy an evening out, be a source of support or, at the very least, a sympathetic ear to listen to his woes when they were of the sort not easily shared with others. That was something he had secretly longed for all his life and never had occasion to find.

He hadn’t occasion to find _any_ of that, actually. The occasional casual lover or reliable escort to share an opera season… nothing that lasted. Nothing meaningful beyond the moment. Nothing unduly regretted when it was over. He knew, though, knew in his heart that it would be different if he reached out for Gregory. If matters soured, as they could, he would regret it profoundly. For both himself and for the Detective Inspector. And he would never lose the awareness that it could have been avoided if he had not selfishly chosen to bring their bond fully into existence instead of finding satisfaction in the small tendrils of it that reached for him as he lurked in the shadows.

But what he _did_ know about the Detective Inspector, if he was to give candor its due, painted the picture of someone who… was lonely. Friends, acquaintances he had a healthy supply of which to boast, but there had always been a lack of affection in the man’s life. Or, at least, affection of the romantic nature that was other than fleeting. A man with a tender and caring heart whose job was often bitter and cutting… would not that man long for someone at his side? Someone who could offer comfort and devotion? Distract from the harshness of this world, if only for a time, so facing the next day was made easier?

He had never considered himself such a person to offer those things but he, also, had never felt the desire to do so. A desire he felt now and _had_ felt since he first rounded the corner to find his brother arguing with a silver-haired vision of beauty who easily weathered the vitriol and turned it in a positive and productive direction, offering Sherlock a way to break free from the tedium and chemical demons that tore at his mind.

“What you suggest I do?”

I refuse to acknowledge your hastily squelched smile, brother. I refuse to acknowledge it with all that I am, though I am profoundly moved and grateful to have seen it even for that briefest of moments.

“Present yourself and disclose the situation. Not, perhaps, the theatre that preceded it, but the reality you both now share. Then…”

“Yes?”

“I don’t know! Ask John, this is far more his area.”

“No, that I shall not be doing.”

“Then default to cliché. Offer to escort him to dinner. He… I suspect Lestrade would appreciate, even with a soulmate, the trappings of romance. He, like John, is heavily flawed in that regard, but if I can bear the agony, so can you.”

Agony… Sherlock’s ability to hide his love of romancing his doctor hovered squarely at nil. Perhaps only in a way a brother could notice, but the point stood, nonetheless.

“Very well. An invitation to dinner where we can discuss the situation in a neutral and nonthreatening location.”

“That is how you describe it? Pathetic. You sound as if you are negotiating a cease fire with a warlord.”

“Is it really so different?”

“Lestrade is going to trounce you before the first course and I am only angry that I shall not be there to witness it firsthand.”

“Oh my, that sounds most… feral.”

“Are you… oh no. You are becoming carnal.”

“Is that not appropriate towards one’s soulmate?”

“Not when I am within hearing distance. Or seeing distance. Or any distance shorter than that of here to the sun.”

After a series of gagging noises, Sherlock got onto his mobile, Mycroft was certain, to share his trauma with John which gave _him_ the chance to simply enjoy the feeling of hope that was blooming in his chest. Hope and an inexplicable certainty that his hope and happiness would be shared by the person to whom it was directed. It was an easy thing to arrange for the Detective Inspector be free tomorrow evening for a small, private conversation and he would see it done straight away.

Then he must choose a suitable location for their conversation. Yes… he knew the most exclusive French restaurant that… no. No, whereas Gregory might be impressed by the ambience, he certainly would not be impressed by the food, which was extremely expensive and, truth be told, entirely unworthy of the cost. Something less fussy, then. A locale where a man of Gregory’s more practical sensibilities would be comfortable yet where the food was exceptional but the atmosphere still radiated a sense of occasion. An establishment to mark a momentous event for a couple who appreciated a delicious meal and an appealing selection of wines. 

Strangely, several such locations came to mind. Not places he frequented for business matters or on the rare occasion he entertained socially, but where he might take himself for a meal when he had cause for a personal pampering at the end of a particularly difficult day. Or when he simply wished to indulge himself after a particularly _successful_ day. Perhaps… perhaps he and Gregory were not as dissimilar as he had thought. One small point of similarity could easily foretell the presence of others and each one would be a delight to discover. Not _too_ many similarities, though. Variety was the spice of life and he was a man who positively craved a bit of pepper in his food…

… and his men.


	2. Chapter 2

“What do you have? Lice?”

Greg took a break from trying to use his recently-maligned arms to reach the spot on his back where an irritating itch/sting/tingle had decided to start again and make him loony.

“You don’t get lice on your back, you berk.”

“You could if your back was hairy.”

“Mine isn’t.”

“Are you sure?”

“Of… ok, I was going to say ‘ of course’ but I don’t actually know for certain. It doesn’t feel hairier than it used to be and nobody’s told me I’ve recently grown a pelt back there. I’m fairly certain I’d feel it if that was the case, so…”

“That’s more discussion of your back hair than I ever wanted to have, so thank you. Could be an insect or spider bite. Strange place for one, but not impossible.”

“Maybe. It was embarrassing, though. There I am, like a dog rolling about on its back right there in front of Sherlock’s brother because my back started to stingy-itchy.”

“That’s how bites and such tend to feel. Could have been a jellyfish. They’re sneaky buggers and are definitely stingy.”

“Funny.”

“Want me to have a look?”

“No. Yeah. I’ve never been allergic to stings or anything before really, but that can change with age, I think, and this has been bothering me off and on since last night.”

Mostly off, but once in awhile he’d feel that weird tingly/stingy/itchy sensation that would make him wriggle in his chair or his bed. The latter was especially villainous since it twice woke him up from a truly scorching dream about that Mycroft fellow. He hadn’t had sexy dreams like that in years! And these were particularly delicious. Woke up with a hard, throbbing cock and what actually felt like the energy to do something scandalous with it if there’d been someone in bed with him who was in the mood for a bit of searing scandal in their lives. Something else that hadn’t happened in years! Well, not to that level of intensity, at least. Apparently, his ignition just needed the right key and, though he’d never have suspected it, the tall, sophisticated, mysteriously aloof Holmes was locksmith-perfect for his libido.

“Alright, lean forward a bit and I’ll have a peek…”

Anderson made a grand show of pretending to don gloves, then a full hazmat suit, which wasted enough time for Greg’s mobile to sound and the whole business to become a moot point.

“We caught a case.”

“Let’s hope you don’t die from jellyfish venom before we close it. The mountain of paperwork I’d have to do would be enormous.”

“Better carry a spare biro, just in case.”

__________

“Mr. Holmes? “

Mycroft sighed at his driver’s voice, but tried to keep his own from straying too far in the ‘what do you want can’t you see I’m spying on my soulmate’ tone range.

“Yes, Charles?”

“If we’re going to be here longer, might I dart out for a coffee? And a pastry? Maybe a roast chicken?”

Waving off the question with as much tetchniess as it deserved, then reconsidering and sending the man off for _two_ coffee/pastry orders, without the chicken, roasted or not, Mycroft continued to stare at the window of Greg’s small office and tapped his fingers on his thigh to keep those fingers from trying to scratch his upper back. The blasted DI… how dare the man hagride his existence, and dreams, in such a… flagrant manner. Thrice he’d wakened from the most potently erotic dreams of his life because his back was, apparently, alerting him to the fact that the focus of those erotic dreams was lying as alone in bed as was he and there was a straightforward way to alter that tragic fact. This soul bond had decided, in a most uncharitable fashion, that it did not appreciate being left partially acknowledged and had taken it upon itself to nudge matters on a touch. Not that much nudging was required, but could it not simply be patient until tonight? He had responsibilities, for pity’s sake, and so did Gregory.

That being said, he certainly was not tending to those responsibilities here, hovering like a moth drawn to Gregory’s bright and beguiling flame. Nor had he tended to the fundamental step of issuing the necessary invitation to make tonight’s events possible in the first place, so disordered had been his thoughts since he exited the Detective Inspector’s office. Sloppy. Sloppy and inefficient. Well, that much he could change with the magical power of his mobile while sitting here avoiding doing anything of national interest, so change it he would.

“Detective Inspector Lestrade.”

“Ah, Detective Inspector. How goes your day so far?”

“Ummm… ok. Who is this?”

Are you trying to further discommode my life, Gregory? That is terribly unsporting of you, given the situation.

“Do pardon me. Mycroft Holmes, at your service.”

“OH! Oh, Mr. Holmes. Sorry, sir. I didn’t recognize your voice and… didn’t expect you phoning on my personal number.”

“Yeeesssss….”

That was somewhat a misstep on my part. Damn you befogged brain!

“I do apologize. My finger missed the mark, apparently, for your professional one. In any case, do you have a moment free?”

“Ummmm… if you don’t mind me talking and walking.”

Something Mycroft was now noticing, since the DI was exiting the building, mobile pressed to his ear and an all-too-familiar wriggle commencing involving the doomed-to-failure tactic of using his shoulder blades to scratch the space between themselves and rid him of an irksome itch.

“I… of course not. And I shall be brief. Would you be so kind as to join me for dinner tonight? I feel we have certain matters to discuss.”

Mycroft watched Greg come to a stop on the pavement, much to the irritation of his team, several of whom either bumped into him or had to dodge out of the way and took pains to let him know what they thought of his rude behavior with gestures equal to, if not surpassing, his own display of rudeness.

“Dinner? Tonight? Me?”

“Yes.”

From his vantage point, Mycroft had a very good view of Greg running the fingers of his free hand through his hair and doing a dance that consisted of shifting weight foot to foot and looking between the sky and the pavement in a surprisingly rhythmic pattern.

“M… maybe?”

“Is there a problem?”

“Yeah. We just caught a case and…”

“Impossible.”

“Nooooo…. very possible. I’m en route to the scene right now, actually.”

A statement that had Greg realizing he hadn’t taken a single step since he answered his mobile and spurred him into motion after his team.

“But, I…”

The hands of Mycroft’s brain frantically tore through his various mental files and folders searching for the day’s to-do list and found not only no check mark next to the box labeled ‘Free Gregory from Professional Obligations’ but no list, at all, for his planned evening. Disaster! His brain had failed him in a calamitous fashion and the memo of dissatisfaction he would script to its supervisor positively would set synapses ablaze.

“I… fully understand, Detective Inspector. And I credit your dedication to your work.”

“I’ll know more in a few hours, though. And it’s early! If I can make it tonight, I’ll let you know. If not, another night? That would be… ummm… that would be very nice, actually.”

If you think I shall suffer another night of erection-prompting dreams, Gregory Lestrade, with only myself to enjoy the erection in question, then you have taken leave of your senses.

“I am certain we can find a date and time accommodating to both of us.”

Such as tonight.

“Great! Really, that’s great. I’m looking forward to it. A lot. Oh, I’ve gotta go now, though. Sorry, sir.”

“I do believe you can dispense with the ‘sir.’ Do call me Mycroft.”

“Thanks! And you can call me Greg. Because that’s my name. Which you already know, but… yeah.”

“I appreciate that, Gregory. Enjoy your day.”

And do avoid walking into that parked vehicle. Gregory, you pointedly are _not_ avoiding.

“I will! You… you, too! Oomph…”

Greg made certain to end the call before releasing a stream of swear words at the car that had evilly chosen to park directly in his path, albeit in a legal parking spot and not in the path he was _supposed_ to be walking, but in the meandering path he’d taken when his brain shut down on the phone. A date! Mycroft wanted a date! Dinner, too, which was a cozy, intimate date of the sort where you were determined to make certain it wasn’t mistaken for some friends evening, like going to the cinema or to a concert. They could save those for dates two and three. Maybe, dates three and four, actually, since the way he was feeling right now, a successful Date #1 would be perfectly followed by a Date #2 doing nothing but shagging until they were completely shagged out and just lay there with dazed smiles on their faces. That would be nice. Mycroft would be fabulous at sex, too, he could tell. The man had… grrrrrrr. That thing some people had that just made you growl in anticipation when you saw them and what you were anticipating was a great deal of shagging.

“Greg? Want to solve this case or just stand there making rude gestures at that car and staring stupidly at the sky?”

Nice of his team to have their own vehicle idling while they enjoyed his performance. He should sell tickets. It’d help fund dates three and four which required more money than was necessary for lube and new sheets.

“Oh, if I must.”

Luckily, his brain could compartmentalize work and life issues because the life issue side right now was running in a circle, shouting in victory. In about three minutes it would be running in a circle, shouting in panic because he had no idea what to wear for a dinner date with someone as elegant as Mycroft Holmes. Or how to hold a real conversation with someone as well-spoken and intelligent. Or hold a fork the way they probably taught you at those elite schools so the waiter isn’t called over to end one’s life in a discrete, but permanent, manner. And what if that fucking stingy-itch was _still_ being bothersome… he couldn’t sit at dinner trying to reach around like a monkey hoping to find a nice nit to snack on in its fur, not even if that nit would help boost his energy for the upcoming wild, torrid monkey sex.

This was going to be rough…

__________

“Mr. Holmes? If you don’t actually want this pastry…”

Mycroft didn’t even look. His sharply-honed senses had his hand shooting out to precisely the correct position to snatch away the plump pastry that was centimeters from his driver’s mouth, though he used more caution snatching the coffee since even _his_ senses were not quite trustworthy enough to make wearing a hot cup of coffee a 100% impossibility.

“Thank you, sir. My waistline appreciates your resurrection.”

“Amusing. Baker Street, Charles.”

“Is that code?”

“No, it is a destination.”

“Anthea did ask me… order me… to remind you that your brunch-cum-meeting cannot be postponed without a great deal of bother on her part, something she took pains to emphasize was not in anyone’s best interests.”

“We have an abundance of time for…”

Charles tapped his watch, which had Mycroft pulling out his own to check that… no, there was not an abundance of time because his driver’s comment about a roast chicken was not as petty and hyperbolic as he had believed.

“Quite. Very well, my visit with my brother shall be conducted by phone which, upon second thought, is likely a more agreeable method of broaching this conversation with Sherlock than having it in person.”

Mycroft gave a flick of his wrist that earned him a poorly-concealed smirk, but set the car in motion, then turned his brain to one of its favorite tasks – list making. He still had several things to set in place before his meeting and it would take some haste on his part to see them completed in the time available. First, though, persuade Sherlock to intercede in whatever case Gregory had been assigned and see it sorted before evening. Second, negotiate with Anthea as to which of the necessary pre-meeting initiatives she would take onto her shoulders and what it would cost him in cash, time, blood or incriminating photographs for her to do so. Third, muddle through the day as best as possible to secure an evening free. Lastly, prepare himself for said evening free and hope his preparations met with the approval of the man for whom they were being undertaken.

Gregory Lestrade, though you cannot hear me, do recognize that this serves as your official notice to give your approval to my preparations and undertakings because… I want you to view me positively and as someone who could and wishes to bring happiness to your life. Which, perhaps, is not well-served by issuing an order to approve, however, I am exceedingly new to this and would be eternally grateful for any allowances you could see fit to bestow…

__________

“No.”

“Sherlock…”

“I have far more pressing matters to attend to.”

“Your experiments can wait.”

“It is not an experiment. I am eating toast.”

“You can eat toast at any time.”

“Incorrect. Or, to be accurate, yes, I can have toast at any point in time when bread is present, however, this toast is spread with a certain jam that John is too miserly to purchase often and I will not set it aside for anything short of …”

“I will have twenty jars delivered to you by nightfall.”

“A case you say? I suspect it centers on the body that was found near Vauxhall Bridge. It could prove tricky…”

“Twenty-five jars.”

“On my way.”

Letting out a relieved huff of breath, Mycroft gave permission for his muscles relax and crossed his mental fingers that Sherlock could offer such assistance that, at the very least, leads would be established to reduce the urgency of the matter and allow the Detective Inspector something of a free evening. Fortunately, the restaurant he had in mind for their dinner would gladly hold a table for him as long as he required it, so a firm meeting time was immaterial.

As long as the meeting time _was_ tonight. Truly, if he had to suffer another lust-exhausted night in his life, he would much rather the lust be handled in a multiparticipant manner and not a pitiful solo performance that would certainly win no commendations from any of the gods of lust, sex, desire or bed linens… 


	3. Chapter 3

“Sherlock?”

“Was that in doubt?”

Sherlock strolled under the police tape as if he actually possessed a warrant card and took a look at the body in the mud while Greg took a look at _him_.

“Who called you?”

“If I waited each time for one of your sluggardly underlings to phone for a case, I would have died from boredom a hundred times over.”

“Then how’d you hear about this poor chap?”

“There is a mechanical contrivance called a television. You may wish to investigate it, though not with the purpose of affecting its arrest. I have little doubt you would bungle that as you do most of your initiatives.”

“Funny. And, ok, the media _was_ here fairly quickly, so that makes sense. What doesn’t make sense, though is why you’re here for this particular victim. There’s nothing striking about the cause of death, which I’m going to wager has a very strong connection to that massive gunshot wound in his chest and we haven’t gotten an ID yet, so I have no idea if he’s anyone who might have occasion to be involved in something intriguing. Intriguing to you, at least.”

“You have no standing to decide what I will or will not find intriguing, Lestrade.”

“True, but I _know_ you. Standing or not, what makes you light up with glee is not a clear-cut case like this one, no matter how much mud is involved.”

“How can you make a claim of clear-cut if you have yet to learn the victim’s identity?”

“Fair point. But… shit.”

“What is wrong with you?”

Sherlock watched Greg try not to wriggle after being called out for wriggling and waited for his inevitable failure. It took four seconds.

“It itches!”

“What itches?”

“My back. I’ve got a bite or rash or something and it’s been bothering the fuck out of me since last night.”

“Since… last night.”

“Yeah. I’ve had strange pains and bruises I couldn’t remember getting before, but never an itchy stingy thingy that I couldn’t scratch or rub away.”

“I see…”

“I’ll put cream or something on it later when I can reach it. Maybe that will help.”

“Let me see.”

“No.”

“Yes.”

“It’s not in easy reach, so no.”

Sherlock spun Greg around and pulled his coat down to trap his arms, making Greg shout in indignation but it quickly changed into an ecstatic grunting as Sherlock took a few moments to scratch hard and fast through Greg’s shirt.

Then it was another indignant shout when Sherlock yanked back Greg’s shirt collar far enough to see his back, which was also far enough to choke, something which, fortunately, Sherlock eased through unfastening the topmost button of Greg’s shirt with his free hand.

“Thanks for postponing my death.”

Sherlock simply snorted as he continued to study the elaborate pattern visible on Greg’s skin. Even Sherlock would have been forced to admit the sinuous collection of jet-black lines made a beautiful pattern, especially since it was highly colored as if it was a piece of stained glass. With one very notable difference.

Purple. There were sections of the piece colored purple. A rich, regal purple that he had never seen on a soulmark. Not pictured in books, seen on television documentaries or with the few he’d seen in person. Soulmarks never had purple in them. Except… here.

“Ugh.”

“What? What is it?”

“You have the skin of a pensioner.”

“What does that even mean? Wait, let me answer that myself. It means you’re a bastard. Can you look beyond that, though, and tell me if you see what’s making me miserable?”

Yes, I do see. And it’s certainly more intriguing than your victim who works in the publishing industry, has an ex-wife, injured his left knee when he was young, recently came into money and is a Libra.

“I see a great deal of nonsense for a pimple.”

“It is not a pimple.”

“One of many.”

“Wrong.”

“I may as well be gazing at a teenager’s face.”

“That’s it!”

Greg did another sort of wriggle than his itchy-back example and worked the sleeves of his jacket back up so he could straighten it and, as a bonus, use his free hands to make a set of rude gestures at Sherlock, who gave them the bored look he felt they were due, though he made note of a variation in one that he rarely saw for a man of the DI’s age.

“Oh, very well. I may have noticed something.”

“What? Tell me.”

“I can work on this case?”

“Fine, whatever. What’s on my back?”

“A pimple.”

Sherlock dropped to a knee to begin inspecting the corpse while Greg made strangling motions inches above his curls. However, Greg had to concede that if Sherlock saw something genuinely worrying, he _would_ say something. So, probably not a pimple, but the likelihood of an insect bite was increasing. If that was actually the case, then it’d pass quickly enough and he could use a little lotion or cream to quiet matters until then. Of course, he didn’t _have_ any lotion or cream but it was a pleasant thought, anyway.

Which brought him to Mycroft Holmes. The pleasant thought, bit, not the lack of lotion part. That would have been a bit pervy and not at all the presentation he wanted to make on their big date. And he _did_ want to make a good impression. Sherlock wasn’t being any help with his medical condition but maybe he could do something about another condition he was suffering…

“Sherlock… your brother came to see me last night.”

“How unfortunate for you.”

“Let me tell you in case you were unaware – fuck you.”

“That failed every test for logical meaning.”

“Nice to know my record stands unblemished. In any case, he had a chat with me about the Grunner case and I agree with him that you should step back for the time being.”

“Impossible.”

“Very possible and you know it. He filled in a few things for me and it’s clear that the direction you were going was going to cause problems, probably more than it would solve.”

“I will pursue the avenues of investigation I believe will be the most effective and efficient for bringing about a solution.”

“And if you cause a lot of damage in the process?”

“That is for you and Mycroft to manage.”

“Wrong. But, precisely the root of the problem here. Mycroft would have to do an enormous amount of mischief managing and whereas the police can cause its own headaches for government types, at times, there’s a line where we have to consider trying a different tactic because we’re no longer, in the big picture, acting in the public good. If it helps, your brother did provide a few insights and leads of his own that seem strong ones for you to chase. I suspect they’ll be more productive than what you already had in your pocket.”

“ _That_ I doubt highly.”

“Would you at least check them out before you jump back into burning London to the ground?”

“It is a waste of my time. And an insult.”

“Would you? I’ll…there are a couple of cold cases I could throw your way that you might enjoy.”

“Continue.”

“One was a gruesome murder and the other a string of thefts from some upscale art galleries.”

“Hmmmm….”

“And I’ll tell John I haven’t seen you the next time you’re hiding in my office and he’s phoning because he wants to end your life in a violent and spectacular manner.”

“Very well. I will investigate whatever information Fatcroft passed to you but if it proves fruitless, then I will veer back in my original direction.”

However, since my original direction was somewhat manufactured a return to it will not be forthcoming, unlike my case of jam.

“Fair enough. I’ll tell your brother and keep him off your back for awhile, how does that sound?”

“If Mycroft was on my back, my spine would collapse and my internals would be crushed into liquid. When will you be speaking with him?”

“Uhhhh… not sure.”

“Why did you hesitate?”

“Because I’m a slow thinker.”

“True, but not applicable to the circumstances.”

“It is, it’s just… what with this case and all…”

“I will have this sorted by afternoon.”

“You _cannot_ know that.”

“I can. That gives you sufficient time to phone my brother and, if necessary, incarcerate him for the duration of his life so he cannot pester me further with his meddlesome ways.”

“I have no idea what you have up your arse about your brother but you should try to drag it out one day. He’s nothing like the ogre you paint him to be.”

“He is exactly like the ogre I paint him to be, however… how would you describe him?”

“I’d say… intelligent, articulate, funny…”

“Funny? When, precisely, did you suffer the injury that disabled your capacity for rational thought?”

“I like his sense of humor! And he’s hard-working, dedicated to his job, cares the world about you, though I have no idea why what with you being an evil git, is an amazing dresser, has those sort of features that you see in paintings of elegant aristocrats, smells amazing…”

Greg caught the look on Sherlock’s face and faked a cough to bring his ramble to a less awkward end. For his part, Sherlock was well aware the look on his face was one of abject horror and disgust, but it was made all the worse by the fact he’d brought it all on himself.

“… _and_ he’s an upstanding person who would move heaven and earth for you, which is something you should think about now and again when you’re opening your mouth to say something nasty about him.”

“I try to avoid thinking about Mycroft at all, so that should be simple enough. Now, back to your repulsive fascination with my brother…”

“My fascination is _not_ repulsive!”

Greg’s expression wasn’t one of abject horror and disgust, merely the recognition of utter catastrophe, but it was made all the worse by the fact he’d brought it all on himself.

“Ok, what I meant was…”

“Extremely clear and humiliating for you.”

“Wrong.”

“I assure you! What you are feeling right now is the painful shock of humiliation flowing through your veins. Would a lozenge help?”

Yes, it was unprofessional to nudge Sherlock so he had to plant a hand in the mud to keep from falling fully over, but given he was already suffering the painful shock of humiliation, without benefit of a soothing lozenge, Greg didn’t much care.

“Assault!”

“Call the police. Now, I have naught for ideas about what lunacy has infected your brain this time, but let me tell you here and now…”

“You are particularly agitated by the implication of… feelings… towards Mycroft. Interesting.”

Interesting? That meant Sherlock was thinking. And had a thought _about_ which he was thinking. Was it a good thought or a bad one? And which would be worse?

“What? What’s interesting?”

“Oh…. nothing.”

“Sherlock!”

“Fine. I’ll tell you. It’s… not a pimple. It’s an ingrown hair the sight of which nearly made me vomit.”

Sherlock was off in a sprint before Greg fully pulled his feet out of the sticky mud, but his hands could still form a pair of fists which he shook at Sherlock’s rapidly retreating back like an old man yelling after kids who’d stolen the milk off his stoop.

Once the initial irritation of the milk theft had worn off, it was uncomfortably replaced by a niggling worry that Sherlock would… do something. Like tell his brother what a stupid person a certain DI was and how much that stupid DI lusted for the bum of a particular member of the Holmes family. At least he hadn’t actually mentioned the bum lust out loud. That _would_ have been humiliating. And painted him as a shallow person when he actually lusted for the whole person that was Mycroft Holmes, not just the pert arse the man was lucky to sit on every day. And see naked when he was stepping into the shower, if he had the urge. Which he should. Even Mycroft should want to lust after Mycroft’s bum, it really was that luscious. From what, at least, he could see outlined by the man’s bespoke trousers.

What was under the _front_ of those bespoke trousers was something he could only imagine, but he’d been doing a lot of that since last night and, since he had a fairly good imagination for all things lusty, what he imagined was enough to make him hard if he imagined it too much right now. Which he was actually _doing_ , so he needed to stop with anything relating to imagining Mycroft’s gorgeous cock and what it would feel like in his mouth when…

“Uh… Greg? Is everything alright.”

No. Not in the slightest. In the most wonderful way possible.

“Yeah, what is it?”

Anderson gave Greg a thoughtful look but decided not to inquire about why the DI looked a bit flushed and anxious. Given it was Greg, the multitude of possible answers contained few that he really wanted to hear.

“Sherlock checked the evidence bags for what we found in this fellow’s pockets, then left to hail a cab. According to him, we need to look in the publishing sector and focus on anyone who recently came into money by inheritance or other means but not to bother because he’d have an ID for us and background to pursue more extensively. Is there a reason he’s being so helpful?”

“Who the fuck knows why Sherlock does what he does?”

“You, sometimes, which is why I’m asking.”

“Well, not this time. But, if he can lend a hand, I’ll gladly take it. It would be nice to put in something close to a normal person’s work hours today.”

“Oh, got something on for tonight?”

“Maybe.”

“Go on.”

No. I have no desire to be mocked by both Sherlock and you in one day. Though, admittedly, that’s what happens on a disappointing number of days in my life, so pressing onward.

“Nothing along the lines of what you’re probably thinking, filthy pervert that you are…”

It’s actually a lot filthier. At least, in my imagination.

“… it’s just Sherlock’s brother asked to meet tonight to discuss a few things and I’d rather see it done sooner than later, given Sherlock’s nonsense is always best nipped in the bud whenever possible.”

The award for most skillfully crafted only-sort-of lie goes to Greg Lestrade for his outstanding performance hiding his filthy imagination from the world at large.

“That sounds horrible. Are you getting free alcohol out of the deal, at least?”

“I have no idea, but I’ll make that suggestion. I suspect Mr. Holmes has already discovered the strategy of using copious amounts of alcohol to ease Sherlock-focused conversations, so maybe I can beg a glass or two off of him.”

“He looked fairly posh, so it’ll probably be good stuff that you beg. Bring a flask along to fill for me?”

“Find your own posh gent to steal drinks from.”

“Why? I already found yours.”

“He’s not mine yet!”

Oh shit.

“Oh shit.”

“Mind reader!”

“What?”

Chill, Gregsy. Chill like an ice cube… Anderson’s on the scent and he can put our best sniffer dogs to shame.

“Nothing. Doesn’t matter. Now, about the body…”

“I counter with ‘Now, about this ‘yet’ business.’ Is this… Greg Lestrade, do you have a date?”

He’s sniffing!

“No!”

“Stop lying.”

I’ve been sniffed! And not in a good way…

“Maybe!”

“Pitiful.”

“No, it’s just… he really did phone to talk about matters, but he didn’t specify the matters were Sherlock. And he asked me to dinner.”

“That’s a date.”

I fucking hope so!

“Not for certain. He could also be buying me a little dinner to soften me up for some favor that he knows I won’t like, probably involving his brother.”

Now that I say that aloud, it sounds unhappily plausible.

“That sounds like a lot of effort just to ask you not arrest Sherlock the next time he’s caught posing as a cleaner at Thames House.”

“He was lucky MI5 didn’t press the issue after he agreed to show them how he counterfeited a security badge that made it through their screening procedures.’

Anderson nodded, but Greg began to grow a little nervous given the nod morphed into a slighter one, combined with a look that said Anderson was weighing something to say and the heft of it was substantial.

“Do you… want it to be a date?”

“What? Me? A date?”

“For the record, that’s a definite yes to anyone with ears and can understand the English language.”

It was. There was no denying the truth.

“Ok, fine. We didn’t chat for long, but I thought he was interesting and clever. I wouldn’t mind a nice evening out with someone like that.”

“Nice looking, too.”

“Very.”

“So, the interesting and clever was just a cover for the fact you’re warm for his form.”

Not entirely. All of it’s important, because Greg Lestrade is not a shallow person, as was previously discussed in his lust-addled thinking.

“No, but I won’t deny he’s got a look I admire.”

“Fancy way of saying he sets your bollocks aglow.”

“Helps me find my keys in the dark.”

“Phone him. Tell him you’re happy to accept his gracious invitation.”

“No, not until I know I can actually make it. You know how it can be when you’re getting started on a case.”

“I do and I also know how it feels when we’re going to be working solid day and night at the start of a case. It doesn’t feel like this.”

“That doesn’t mean I’m going to disappoint Mycroft or fail to do my duty to the victim by accepting before I know I can actually go.”

“We never know that, Greg. Goes with the job.”

“True, but I can know better than I do now so I’ll wait until later.”

“How much later?”

“I don’t know!”

“Two o’clock. I wager we’ll know well enough by two o’clock that you can commit to an evening out tonight.”

“I’m not going to wager on something that silly.”

“We wagered yesterday on how long it would take a pigeon to walk across a street.”

“That wasn’t silly. That was… natural science.”

“Two o’clock, Greg. I’ll have an eye on the time.”

“How about having an eye on the corpse?”

“Easily managed. I’ve got _two_ eyes.”

Greg glared at Anderson who gave him a cheeky salute before sauntering off to continue working, leaving the DI to take a few deep breaths and get his brain back in the game. First Sherlock, then Anderson. Maybe it was a sign to postpone his maybe-date with Mycroft. If the annoyance level was already high that could easily mean that by the time he did arrive at dinner, his mood would be soured and that was _not_ the way he wanted things to go.

No… can’t think that way. Have to think positively. Such as the itch is positively back and I could really use Sherlock’s fingers right now. Or Mycroft’s fingers. Though, I’d prefer something being done with those long, expressive fingers besides scratching an itch. Or, to be precise, scratching a particular itch that _didn’t_ involve his back.

Today was going to be hard and, if all went to shit, it might be the only hardness he’d experience for some time to come…

__________

It was a silly conceit of Anthea to have placed a small flashing red light in the recesses of a bookshelf so he could be alerted when Sherlock was howling at his door, however, it did serve sufficient warning if he chose to beat a hasty retreat out the rear door of his office or quickly snatch up his mobile and pretend a conversation that would have his brother cooling his heels while he stood waiting for the attention he was craving. Today the latter option seemed appropriate, so onto his mobile he went, affecting a ‘this is my serious face’ face and warming up his vocal cords for the necessary hmmmmm’s and ‘Yes, I see’ recitations.

“I know you are not speaking to anyone, Mycroft!”

Damn.

“Sherlock…”

“Remove your clothes.”

“Not this again.”

“I must compare Lestrade’s mark to yours.”

Oh. Well, there was actual merit to that idea. Well done, brother.

“For academic purposes?”

“Partially. Have you taken steps to observe yours?”

No. And not only due to worry that it would appear… wrong… since initially he had pulled away from his soulmate.

“No, actually.”

“Your laziness never fails to astound me. In any case, I could not photograph Lestrade’s without arousing his suspicions, or confirm his belief that he is beset by some form of flesh-eating disease, so I require yours for that purpose. There is… let me see your soulmark before I make any definitive statements.”

Mycroft narrowed his eyes and studied his brother carefully but failed to detect even the slightest bit of chicanery on Sherlock’s part.

“Very well…”

Remotely locking his door, which sent the signal to Anthea that he was not to be disturbed, Mycroft then removed his jacket and tie, finally unbuttoning and removing his shirt so Sherlock could have a clear view of his upper back.

“Yes… yours is a match to his with the typical variations to be expected from your specific physiological response to the soul bonding.”

“Did you expect anything else?”

“No, but it simply bolsters my argument for the special nature of a soul-sensitive soulmate bond.”

Snapping a quick photo, Sherlock showed the image to Mycroft who blinked in surprise.

“Purple… most singular.”

“I must go through our ancestor’s writings again but I know this color is not documented for soulmarks in any source I have examined previously.”

“No… no, it is not. It _is_ damned flattering, though.”

“Your vanity is off-putting.”

Vanity it may be, but… that was an _exquisite_ mark, to say the least. Fully appropriate for a bond as esteemed and special as theirs. And yes, brother dear, my skin is highly flattered by the royalest of purples which I now shall wear proudly for only one other set of eyes to see…

“Are you done with your preening and pirouetting?”

For the moment.

“Dear heavens, Sherlock, you are testy today.”

“I have a case to solve so you can squire Lestrade about London like a besotted chimpanzee. I have more than sufficient reason to be… testy.”

“Thirty jars of jam.”

“Thirty-five.”

“Done. Now, if you will excuse me…”

“Once I have completed my documentation of your mark, I may find it within me to search for an excuse for you but, until then, hold still while I take more photographs.”

Mycroft sighed and struck a pose a pinup girl would envy, smirking at his brother flinging his arms up to cover his eyes while shrieking that he was blinded for life. Today was delivering a full platter of delight to him and he was more than happy to sup fully of its bounty. And tonight… oh, the bounty would exceed his fondest dreams. That is, as long as Gregory could be freed from his responsibilities. He _did_ have a relatively light diary today so…

“Sherlock, do keep me apprised as to your progress today. Should you require… resources… they will be made available.”

“That anxious to consummate your soulbond with Lestrade? Revolting.”

“Is that now considered synonymous with heavenly? Dear me, it _has_ been awhile since I’ve browsed the dictionary.”

Though Sherlock doubled over in retching agony, he was miraculously was able to continue taking snaps of Mycroft’s back for further study. His brother was monstrous. Horrible, evil… defiled the very cake from which he was created.

But happy. Since last night he’d seen Mycroft smile more than he had in the past two years. True smiles, that is, not the fake ones he affected for work or the dreary social obligations his work occasionally demanded. Authentic smiles were rare as flawless emeralds and his brother was filling a satchel with them which… was good. Almost as good as thirty-five jars of jam, which was certain to become forty before the day was done…


	4. Chapter 4

“Well?”

“Well, what?”

“I saw you on the phone, Greg. At two o’clock. You didn’t have on either your speaking to a superior or speaking to a subordinate face, so you were talking to Sherlock’s brother and I want to know what happened since I’ve been waiting patiently for you to say something and you haven’t said a single thing because you’re a complete prick.”

Anderson seemed testy.

“Don’t you have work to do?”

“No.”

“I’ll find some for you, then.”

“Impart to me your secrets, Greg. You know you want to.”

“It’s the last thing I’d _ever_ want to do.”

“Where are you going for dinner? You know you’ll need help dressing yourself if it’s anywhere but McDonald’s.”

That wasn’t true. Mostly. Partially true, at best. However, partially true was true enough when he was going to meet the resplendent Mycroft Holmes. Yes, he’d only seen the man once, but someone who dresses like that just to pop into an overworked copper’s office for a chat is well-described as resplendent. As fuck.

“I’m meeting him at a place called Weston’s and…”

“Ooh.”

“Ooh, what? What! How bad is it? Do I need a suit? A tuxedo? I don’t have a tuxedo!”

“Oh my god… you won’t need anything if you have stress-related heart event and drop dead on the spot, now will you? All I was thinking is that’s the place we took my dad for his birthday a few years ago. Quiet, jacket and tie sort of establishment with proper food and a very good selection of wine and beer. Something even you can manage and not embarrass yourself utterly, though you’re off to a bracing start.”

“Oh. That doesn’t sound too bad.”

“Make certain your hair is combed and you find a tie in that dreadful collection of yours that’s not got a coffee stain on it and you should be fine. I’m actually surprised, truth be told. It’s more a working person’s ‘nice restaurant’ and that’s not what I would have expected for poncy Mr. Holmes.”

“What does it mean?”

“How do I know? Maybe…”

At this point, Anderson knew he could be supremely evil or kindly helpful and it was a long moment while his brain wrestled with the choice because the former would be much more fun but the latter would probably leave his friend with enough remaining fortitude to not tremble like a reed in the wind all through dinner.

“… he picked somewhere he knew you’d be comfortable and you’d both have an enjoyable evening.”

Definitely not as much fun as supreme evil, but sacrifices must be made when one’s friend is loony.

“That sounds… encouraging?”

“You have problems. Go away and keep going until you’re at your flat starting the twenty-year grooming process you’ll need before you feel you can leave for your big date. And don’t drown yourself in cologne! Or arrive with scotch on your breath. Or anything stinky like garlic or one of your cheap fags.”

Greg made a rude gesture, but in a nice way to show that he appreciated Anderson’s help. It was a skill he’d developed over time dealing with various members of his team.

“Fine. But I’m not leaving until we’re on a bit more solid foundation here.”

“Four o’clock. You have until then to stand about looking important and busy, then you leave.”

“You’re not my mother!”

“That heavens for that. I know what you’ve bought her for Mother’s Day and it’s all shite.”

“She likes bath oil!”

Anderson just shook his head and walked away, leaving Greg with his conviction that large bottles of highly-scented bath oil were the perfect gift for older women and with a bit of ease about his upcoming evening out with the mighty Mycroft Holmes. Which Greg both recognized and appreciated though he definitely needed to buy some cream or lotion for his back beforehand. Or, maybe, some of that spray they used when you had a nasty rash that did a quick job of making itches go away. That was an idea. And he could apply that himself without asking the nice woman next door to help. She was about eighty and he didn’t need another shopping trip for scented bath oil to say thank you for the help. Those bottles were heavy and the last thing he needed was to sprain a shoulder or something before his momentous night on the town…

__________

Normally, Mycroft preferred to arrive at a particular assignation after the other party as a small show of power and an affected disregard for the other’s time was an excellent way to accomplish the task, however, this was absolutely _not_ the time for such nonsense. He’d made certain to arrive early and verify that his research had been accurate on all aspects of the restaurant’s physical design, staff, menu, patrons, climate control and seventy-four other salient factors were fully up to his standards. His soulmate deserved no less. Though…

What was Gregory doing rubbing his back against a lamppost?

Mycroft continued to gaze through the window at the sight of the DI behaving much as a bear on a nature special who’d found a particularly scratchy tree to satisfy a stupendously pesky itch. But… wasn’t it a delightful thing to behold. And, finally, the man was ready to enter the restaurant.

Appearing positively striking in his handsome gray jacket and trousers, with tasteful burgundy tie.

__________

Normally, Greg preferred to arrive at a particular assignation before the other party as a small show of welcome and a respect for the other’s time was an excellent way to accomplish the task, however, that had fallen to pieces with a last-minute call from the forensics lab that he actually had to pay attention to, so he couldn’t continue shaving or risk slitting his throat which would embarrass him more than presenting himself at the restaurant a touch later than the agreed-upon time. And, yes, maybe he’d also wasted a few minutes verifying that Anderson’s assessment of the place was correct, which only required a little online research to calm any lingering worries about the restaurant’s physical design, staff, menu, patrons, climate control and seventy-four other salient factors that could ambush him when he least expected it and blow a hole in the evening. Mycroft deserved no less than a properly shaved, unambushed table companion. Look at him sitting there; he was actually dressed normally, too! Tidy blue jacket with and navy tie with a tasteful dotted pattern that looked… amazing. Though…

What was Mycroft doing wearing a relieved smile like he’d just sprayed an entire can of itch spray on his back and had it work, unlike some other stupid bastard who would remain nameless. Strangely, though, the itch suddenly seemed to be fading.

“Ah, Gregory. So good of you to join me.”

Greg took a seat and fought wearing his own relieved smile, both for the vanishing itch and the genuinely pleased look in Mycroft’s eyes.

“I’m happy you asked. This is a marvelous restaurant, from what I gather. Smells wonderful.”

Though not as wonderful as you. What’s that cologne you’re wearing? I’ve never smelled its like anywhere but it’s positively fantastic. But… oh no. Why are you sniffing at _me_? I smell like back spray, don’t I? I even spritzed them at the shop before I made a choice to make sure I got one that didn’t stink!

“Is… is there something wrong, Mycroft?”

“Pardon? Oh…”

You successfully mask your thoughts and emotions during the most grueling forms of negotiation, you nincompoop, but fail utterly to hide that you are absolutely intoxicated by Gregory’s scent. Which is indescribable… oh, yes. Must answer or appear even more mentally defective.

“… not at all. Simply admiring your cologne. It is a truly unique and beguiling fragrance.”

\--Beguiling. Oh dear lord… this is why Anthea says you should not be allowed in polite society without a chaperone. Or a gag.

\--Beguiling? He thinks I smell beguiling? Is that good? The _word_ was good but when applied to a slightly scattered table companion… shit. This is why Anderson says you shouldn’t be allowed in polite society without a chaperone. Or a muzzle.

“Thank you, sir?”

“You are most welcome.”

It _was_ good! The crowd goes wild with deafening cheers.

“And if I might return the compliment, yours is… I can’t describe what it smells like, actually, because it’s a mix… or not… of scents that seem like one thing, unlike some of those others you smell where you get hit with orange, then smoke, then what they think smells like leather but they’re wrong, then some tulips or something and it’s like a child’s puzzle where the pieces don’t quite fit together and only makes the poor tyke cry.”

\--That was a LOT of words, Greg. You git. And none of them made _any_ sense. Maybe Anderson shoved a useful muzzle into your pocket when you weren’t looking…

\--I am not wearing cologne. Why… oh. Dear me, _that_ is not part of the standardly accepted lore for soulmates. But, given Gregory and I are superlative examples of the breed, unique to near singularity, it does stand to reason…

“I am glad you approve. Wine? Or is a beer more to your taste?”

Given the server is standing at the ready an acceptable distance to _signal_ their readiness, yet not appear aggressive. Excellent. Gregory must not be subject to any form aggression, especially when he is hoping for a relaxing meal. This I hereby declare.

“Wine would be nice. What would you suggest? I suspect you know the good from the bad much better than most people.”

Was Mycroft… preening? He certainly looked damn good doing it. If that’s what it is, that is. That sounded like something from a kiddie book. Why was his head stuck in a toy shop tonight! That’s not where it should be for some sultry fun with the preening man who smelled more amazing than amazingness itself!

“Thank you, Gregory. I do have a small portfolio of knowledge concerning wines and shall choose something most appropriate for our before-dinner enjoyment.”

Mycroft halted his preening temporarily and made a quick motion to summon the server, had a brief look at the wine list and settled on a choice perfect to usher in further conversation, but not overburden the palate to spoil the remainder of their meal. And did Gregory pay rapt attention while he did so? Why yes, he did.

And your day, Gregory? A successful one, I hope.”

Given I have already verified such with my brother your answer is somewhat unnecessary, however, it is a mark of character that one show attention to and interest in one’s soulmate and never let it be said that Mycroft Holmes was not a man of character. Though some _had_ said that, on occasion, but only from behind heavily fortified bunkers where they felt safe from his reach. It had been a joy to make clear how deluded had been their thinking.

“Not bad, all told. Made good progress on my case and Sherlock was vital in making that happen. I’m confident we’ll see this one closed sooner than later. And you? What tremendous accomplishments were on hand for you today?”

Maintaining Romania’s economic status quo and removing a particular impediment to a small, but terribly useful, civil engineering undertaking in Greece… non-lethal removing, which I know you would appreciate if I could discuss the matter… but little else.

“I enjoyed a bracing day of balancing ledgers and escorting towering stacks of folders safely to the hands of those who were patiently waiting for them to arrive.”

“Oh, you are such a liar.”

“Am I?”

“It’s written on your face in large letters.”

“Dear me, I thought I had paid close attention to my grooming, but I must have been distracted by my anticipation of our pleasant evening to maintain my standards.”

Gregory is laughing! Take that, Sherlock! Your claims that my sense of humor is as mythical as a unicorn is roundly disproved.

“We all miss a bit now and again when we’re distracted so… let’s see if this lovely wine choice redeems you.”

Take a sip, Greg, not a glug. You’re not a barbarian. Usually. Ok… wine sipped and… it’s the best wine in the world. And, no, that’s not hyperbole. Ok, maybe a little. A small hyperbole. Babybole. But that’s all!

“That’s good. Genuinely good. You are officially in charge of… shit.”

“Pardon?”

No answer was required, however, since Mycroft was also getting that special feeling. Not the one that came from erotic imaginings of his soulmate nakedly entwined around him, but from his mobile vibrating in his pocket.

“Oh dear lord…”

“Your brother?”

“Is the same wretched boy the source of your own interruption?”

“Why would he even be at a fashion show? Let alone one where he could end up face down in the Deputy Commissioner’s wife’s lap?”

“If we ever find easy explanation for such a thing, Gregory, it will be the day, I fear, our sanity will be beyond salvaging.”

“You’re probably right. I’m going to have to sort this out, you know. Quickly.”

“I do. And it is a fruitless wish, I wager, that the ladies attending this event simply beat him senseless, and quiet, with their handbags.”

“I suspect so. Well, I at least can say I enjoyed my single sip of this delicious wine.”

“The bottle shall be departing with us, have no fear.”

There were two parts of that statement that made Greg happy. The first was that the booze supply wasn’t shut off and ‘us’ implied they _were_ going to be sorting out this business together. That meant more time with Mycroft. Which was a very good thing, with or without a bottle of wine in his hands.

When Sherlock was involved, though, the ‘with’ situation was marginally a gooder option, but it was still a close call.

__________

There were few things in this world more gratifying than the sight of Sherlock’s indignant face scowling between two large policemen who were partially-patiently escorting him back to Baker Street and under orders that if he tried any silliness, they were to redirect their journey to the nearest holding cell for Sherlock to ferment like a crock of kimchi.

“I’ve got to admit, Mycroft, I have never seen the upper echelon of the police service take a step back but they took three when you made your little call to the Home Office. I don’t want to know what you rained down on them, but it looked a bit like fire and brimstone.”

“Pish tosh. I merely asked a small boon of a colleague to assist with soothing their justifiably frayed tempers.”

Using the threat of having their holiday time cut to naught and instituting a mandatory one-month per year period of ‘skills refreshing’ at a police college somewhere truly dreary. With lots of sheep. And those who enjoyed some decidedly unwholesome relationships _with_ said sheep.

“Well, whatever you did worked. Normally, I have to institute my best groveling protocols to get the hand of the law off Sherlock’s neck when it’s gone up that high, or burn a few of my closely held bits of information about that lot from their younger days, so it was a joy to just sit back and watch the show from the stalls.”

“The methods vary, but the outcome remains the same.”

Emphasizing, if it was required, how suitable we are for each other, Gregory. We may approach problems from different directions, but gain common victory, nonetheless.

“I suppose it does. But… ummmmm…. you said we had matters to discuss and we haven’t had a chance for that, really. I know it’s late, but there are a few places near here for a bite to eat and a glass of something strong to chase it down the throat. Or…”

Mycroft looked marvelous right now. Tired, slightly mussed… soft. It was stupidly stupid to think of that human rapier as soft, but he looked it and it was a look that made this similarly tired and mussed DI want to do more than sit the poor man in a hard pub chair and shove a pile of chips in his direction.

“… my flat’s not far, since you’ve got a car. I can do a bit of pasta and, even though my wine isn’t as nice as what we killed on the way here, it’s not horrid and I’d be happy to see us with a bit of comfort food, good drink and a sofa that’s very used to hosting the Sherlock-drained community when they need a spot of relaxation.”

Gregory… was offering comfort? Relaxation? Care? Oh my… did it suddenly get hot in here… on the pavement. Yes, well… ahem.

“I… that sounds delightful.”

“Great! Alright, then, shall we?”

This was the boldest thing he’d done in years! And someone had to approve, because his back was feeling perfectly fine. In fact, since he’d walked into the restaurant, it’d been very much under control. Maybe it was the hormones. Which ones, he didn’t know, but the ones that started burbling when you were escorting a gorgeous, sophisticated, powerful man to your flat for some intimate time together. 

Not that having a bit of pasta and cheap wine was intimate, necessarily, and his flat wasn’t exactly a sensual palace of romance and erotic pleasure, but it was what he had on hand at the moment, so it would have to do. Besides, Mycroft smiled at him. _That_ sort of smile. There was a lot of leeway being granted when you were gifted with one of _those_ smiles. And, tired and mussed or not, he wouldn’t be wasting any of it…

__________

Greg dabbed his lips and smiled at the feeling of pure bliss that was swimming through his veins. Mycroft could cook. That was unexpected. And looked like a god when he was doing it, with sleeves rolled up, occasionally licking a splash of sauce off his long, elegant fingers.

He also looked like a god sipping wine, now and then gazing over the top of his wineglass as if he was seeing something… special. It was a feeling he’d never really experienced before. He’d been ogled, leered at, sneered at, stared at drunkenly, stared at in horror, shared smiles with friends and all sorts of other things, but he’d never been gazed at the way Mycroft looked at him right now. Like the man was seeing something truly and wonderfully special. It was a good feeling.

“If you decided to chuck your government work, you could be hired as a chef, Mycroft. That was amazing sauce.”

“Such flattery, Gregory. But, thank you. It is not often I have such companionable conversation while I am doing my pot stirring, either. Or am able to enjoy the ability to shout for fresh basil and have it pressed into my hands nearly without pause.”

“My gran was a staunch advocate of growing your own and she had a large vegetable garden, with a sizeable patch of herbs, too. Every year, we’d start seeds for the stuff that didn’t come up again on its own, and she kept pots of things indoors for colder months. I can’t grow much here, but I certainly can pass a quid or two to the grocer for something nice and fresh.”

“Would you enjoy a garden?”

Because I have room. Rather a healthy quantity of it. In London, but… oh, my country home. Dear Gregory, what a joy it would be to watch you work the soil, creating a special place of your own. And I would happily stand… sit… at the ready with a cool drink and cloth for your fingers when you needed a small respite from your labors.

“I’d love one! It’s a silly daydream, actually, to have a bit of land of my own to grow a few things on. Step outside before I start dinner and see what catches my fancy to harvest to make the meal especially delicious. One day, maybe, I’ll make it happen.”

How does next Wednesday sound, my dear?

“I have no doubt you shall achieve your dream, Gregory.”

I have lots of dreams, Mycroft. I’m looking at one right now. Perhaps it’s time to make a move towards achieving that one while the garden waits for my retirement.

“Thanks. I’ll do the washing up later, so why don’t we have a seat on the sofa with another glass of wine to keep the evening going? If that’s alright with you, that is.”

Smooth, Greg. You are the king of smooth. Your garden is going to have slugs. Big ones, too.

“A delightful idea! I am finding the wine very much to my taste. As well as the company.”

Oh, dear god, why don’t you just raise your eyebrows and wink at the man. A music hall lothario has more talent for seduction and can likely sing, too, to keep his soulmate entertained.

“Have a seat then and I’ll pour the wine.”

Mycroft kept himself from any form of winking or eyebrow raising and simply smiled as he rose and moved to the sofa, steeling himself for the upcoming conversation, for which he needed to take the lead, and felt highly grateful when Greg put a hefty glass of wine in his hands.

“Thank you, Gregory. I feel certain you value the opportunity for a quiet glass of wine with pleasant conversation as much as do I for the rarity of the event in our days.”

“That sums things nicely. You’re certain when you’re young that when you rise up the ranks, your life is going to get so much easier, but then you learn the harsh reality that you do more than you did before, it’s just subtler and more behind the scenes where people don’t see you chasing down suspects and think your day is all coffee, pastries and standing about giving orders.”

“Oh, the heady fantasies of youth. I remember much from that time, such as sleep, time to indulge my interests, travel purely for enjoyment… days long gone by and I do grieve the loss, though I would never claim my life is anything but rewarding and something wholly of my design and creation.”

Mycroft sighed softly and a gentle smile grew on his lips as he sipped his wine and treasured the silent moment of memory. It remained there as he leaned slightly into Greg’s touch, which was currently being used to massage his shoulder with Greg’s non-wine-holding hand, which moved the massage up that shoulder to tenderly work the muscles of his neck while Greg enjoyed his own moment of memory.

All of which crashed to a stop when both men realized what was happening but neither had any idea how to disengage from the situation with less than an immediately lethal level of awkwardness.

However, Mycroft was not who he was if he could not spot the _perfect_ opening for the conversation he’d been somewhat avoiding all evening, given how awry the evening had gone early on. Lethal awkwardness could not blind him to the signs, though it was trying it’s very best to do rather a lot of that at present.

“Gregory…”

“I’m sorry. I’m more than sorry and I can’t apologize enough. I… I have no idea why I did that but it was wrong and inappropriate and offensive and I am truly and unreservedly sorry for…”

“Gregory…”

“I understand if you want to leave. Nobody should have to suffer that sort of thing when… oh, you’re already standing. I’ll…”

Greg started to rise off the sofa, but found a long-fingered hand on his head pushing him back down.

“Sit there and remain quiet a moment. There is… I have something to show you.”

That was ominous, Mycroft. However, given you can most likely do more to me with some super spy martial arts move or James Bond gadget you’ve got hidden in your shoe, ominous words are actually comforting right now. Not sure about the shirt unbuttoning bit you’re doing, though I heartily approve of it, even if it does mean the abrupt end of my life because you’ve got your James Bond murder gadget taped to your chest and not stowed in your shoe. Which is stunning. Your chest, I mean, not your shoe, though it is a handsome pair but not nearly as astonishingly stunning as your chest. _Lickably_ stunning is the right term for it, really, and I love that it’s hairy and calling to my hands like a mermaid to a sailor. The hair also keeps you from taping a murder gadget to yourself, too, which is a secondary benefit I’ve come recently to appreciate. Because I’m loony. Oh, you’re turning…

Wait… what?

“Mycroft… that’s not a tattoo…”

“No, it is not.”

“Shit… oh god, I was massaging someone with a soulmate! But… wait, I know when someone’s got a soulmate and I didn’t sense a thing off you. And… that’s not purple, is it?”

“It is. Unique, would you not say for a soul mark?”

“Yeah, I would. I’m confused. Still terribly sorry, but also confused and purple and… that’s a lot.”

“I agree. Perhaps I can help alleviate your confusion. If you will permit it.”

“Permit it? I… sure! Do whatever it is you need to do… for the unconfusing.”

Mycroft bit off remarking on Greg’s mangling of the English language, and not only because it was absolutely adorable, and motioned Greg to stand.

“A mirror, Gregory?”

“I’ve got a small one, I think, somewhere and…”

“A larger one would be better.”

“Then, the bath? Or my bedroom. There’s one over the dresser.”

“That will do.”

Motioning Greg to lead the way, Mycroft simply stayed silent through Greg’s curious stare, then followed him to where he’d already predicted the bedroom to be.

“Yes, that certainly will do nicely. Now, kindly do not grow agitated…”

Which already had Greg growing agitated, but it grew by leaps and bounds as Mycroft began unbuttoning the last remaining shirt in sight, which happened to be on Greg’s own body. He hid it, though, equally as well as Mycroft hid his own upheaval at baring Greg’s chest and feeling his hands try to run themselves over the DI’s naked skin. The battle was fierce, but Mycroft was ultimately able to get the shirt off without giving in to his body’s rather strident pleas for skin-based playtime, and only gulped slightly when he turned Greg for them both to view in the mirror the mark on Greg’s back. 

“That… oh my god.”

“I believe you have learned the reason for your recent discomfort.”

“My itch! That… Mycroft, that’s a soul mark.”

“Most certainly.”

“It wasn’t there before.”

“So I suspected.”

“And… there’s no way I can say it’s not the mate for yours. It’s even got purple!”

“A magnificent showing of it, too.”

“Purple! And… fuck, but that’s a glorious thing.”

“I agree wholeheartedly.”

Greg broke into an enormous grin at his display of body art then felt the grin fade as the meaning of his new decoration kicked his brain into thinking about what was actually important here besides the pattern on his skin.

“Mycroft… alright, I know I’m seeing this. It’s not a hallucination and I haven’t had nearly enough wine to be drunk. And it can only mean one, single thing. I’m right about the thing, aren’t I?”

Mycroft mused that his life was forever bound to this ludicrous individual. What a _delightful_ future it was that lay ahead…

“You are.”

“You’re my soulmate?”

“And you are mine.”

“How couldn’t I know that!”

“For the reason… that a soulmate sensitive cannot sense his own soulmate if that individual is also sensitive to the condition.”

“What?”

“I am also soulmate sensitive. There are… records… that were my soulmate to be like me, I would not be able to sense his soulmate status. However, there would be other signs.”

“Such as?”

“Knowing when he was near, for example. It was one of the reasons… there were times when I came to observe Sherlock and remained out of sight for I experienced an unfamiliar, yet marked, sensation when you were also present. I happened to make mention of it to Sherlock who… let us say he has a rather fantastical turn of mind when it comes to legends, despite his iron-clad grip upon the scientific method. He posited a reason for my sudden strange turn and I took steps to gain evidence for myself.”

“Wait… that was you? Giving me a tingly wingly?”

“You call your penis a wingly?”

“NO! A tingly wingly sensation, you pervert. I remember feeling it a few times but decided it was a side effect of having Sherlock telling me nonstop how shit I was for a few hours. It was _you_.”

“I will not take credit solely for your experiences for I suffer much the same with my brother, but I wager at least some were due to my presence.”

“Then why didn’t you say something!”

“I did.”

“When?”

“Now.”

“Brilliant.”

Mycroft snorted but had to credit the point. He had been hesitant. Rather extremely so.

“I was not confident in my or Sherlock’s assessment of the situation. Further… I did not know how to broach it in a fashion that was not…”

“Embarrassing?”

“If I was incorrect, I believed we both would both feel a king’s ransom of it which… I would never wish that upon you Gregory. Even discounting how it might impact Sherlock’s work with you, I would not see you pained by promise that was merely an illusion. However, Sherlock’s incessant nagging to see his theory proved spurred me to take steps and once I did…”

“Yeah?”

“I was somewhat caught in a maelstrom of confusion, hesitance and… you are truly a man who I would never predict as my soulmate but desire tremendously and it was rather… much.”

It was Greg’s turn to preen a bit because having someone like Mycroft view him as desirable was a joyful situation and one that made him feel MUCH better about having his own mountain-sized pile of erotic fantasies concerning the lean and luscious man standing half-naked in his bedroom. Who was his soulmate. The universe rarely delivered gifts to overworked, middle-aged coppers, but he’d gotten a lifetime’s supply dropped into his lap tonight.

“Then you won’t be upset if I say I’ve had a few ‘oh, he’s a desirable man and I’d like to do something with all that desirableness’ thoughts since I met you?”

“Upset? I would count my uncountable lucky stars that brought us to this point and return the sentiment a hundredfold.”

In films, when someone says something like that, it’s usually accompanied by the one saying it using a progressively sultry tone and moving closer to the one it’s being said to. Mycroft would probably be mortified to know he was exemplifying a standard film cliché, but what mattered more was that the sultriness earned a satisfied purr from its recipient and the moving closer put him in range to have Greg’s strong arms wrap around his waist so they could enjoy the feel of their bodies pressed together as they kissed like it was the only thing keeping them safe in a world beset by demons.

“Gregory… I know we have much to discuss, to decide, however…”

“Bed now?”

“You took the words right out of my mouth.”

__________

Urrggghhh…..

Greg cracked open an eye and had to try three times before the cracking actually worked. He was bloody exhausted! And… well, from the state of his bedroom, it was easy to understand why. What was that smear on the wall? Oh. Oh yeah. Oh very fuckingly lovely yeah… that had been an especially vigorous bout of the most amazing sex of his life and being pinned against the wall, while sweaty and sticky and hot and vibrating with need was something he was very much hoping would happen again. Soon, in fact. Like a few minutes after Mycroft woke up, though neither of them had checked their mobile which could be filled with angry messages asking where the fuck were they when the world was still spinning and there was work to be done.

However, there would be other times for this. Many. Lots and lots of many. Yes, they’d said a lot of things during their marathon of hot, filthy, mind-shattering sex but, by their age, it wasn’t too hard to separate the things said in the heat of the moment from things said that were real. Truly real. Such as wanting this to work. Really work. Not just hooking up for a shag, but building a relationship and a life that already felt like it was always meant to be. How it would all work with their insanely-busy jobs and the fact that they moved in very different circles was still to be seen, but it wasn’t as if they didn’t already have things in common and shared a lot of values, beliefs, goals and ambitions. And Sherlock. Couldn’t forget they shared that daft bugger, too.

It wasn’t impossible. In fact, he’d go so far as to say it wasn’t even improbable. It was supremely possible with the normal amount of work any couple had to put into a relationship to make it successful. It wouldn’t always be smooth sailing, but no relationship, regardless of how happy it was, ever carried on without the rough patch here and there. The arguments and disagreements. Again, they were both old enough to know that and recognize that you worked through those times, hard as it might be, and came out the better for it.

And one thing neither of them had any trouble with was hard work.

“Gregory?”

The voice of an angel. A sleepy, well-shagged and slightly bitten angel.

“Yeah?”

“Is it tomorrow or… later?”

That was actually a good question.

“Uhhhh… not sure.”

“Given an armed response team has not descended on this location to rescue me from a kidnapping, I am going to assume we have arrived at tomorrow and applaud myself for having the fortitude to wake with only… some… hours of sleep to my credit.”

Still angelic, though there wasn’t hint of joshing about in Mycroft’s voice, so best remember to keep alarms set so he wasn’t having to replace boot-kicked-in doors on a regular basis.

“I’ll add my applause to it and give you a standing ovation, too.”

That Mycroft glanced down at Greg’s crotch to check the size of the assumed ovation said a lot about what was currently on his mind.

“You have a filthy mind, Mycroft Holmes.”

“Problem?”

“Only that my head may not be able to hold all of my admiration without exploding.”

Mycroft snuggled deeper into Greg’s neck and chest, feeling extremely unwilling to part from the warm, sex-scented man at his side.

“I shall provide an emperor’s funeral for you, should that be the case.”

“Hire some of those weeping mourners that throw themselves on my coffin and make a grand spectacle for all to see?”

“Most certainly.”

“Make sure Anderson gets a copy of the video. He could likely make money with it on YouTube or something.”

“I shall make a note of it at my earliest opportunity.”

Said sleepily and with a note of conviction that the remainder of Mycroft’s life would be spent in this bed where it was warm and cozy and smelled of his soulmate.

“Thanks. Mycroft, you do know we’ll have to get out of bed today, don’t you?”

The conviction was being prodded but it would hold.

“I refuse.”

“Will your bladder support your refusal?”

The conviction was lying in rubble at the bottom of the cliff.

“An extremely valid point. This is why we are well-suited, Gregory. Your practical nature shall save me from a myriad of impetuous declarations.”

“I live to serve. And speaking of serve, if we have time, might I escort you to… whatever meal is appropriate for whatever time of day it might be? I suspect we haven’t eaten for awhile.”

As if on cue, Mycroft’s stomach rumbled with enthusiastic agreement to Greg’s offer.

“A wonderful suggestion. And then… I suppose ‘then’ is something we must begin discussing.”

“Yep, but it doesn’t all have to be done today. This is new for both of us and it’ll take time to sort out how we carry forward in a way that we’re both happy with.”

Greg budged down a bit so he could look into Mycroft’s eyes and take his lips in a long, slow kiss.

“And I do want you to be happy, Mycroft. Being soulmates is one thing, but I genuinely want to see you happy and content with what we create together.”

If Greg had any idea how long Mycroft had waited for someone to simply say plainly that his happiness was important, his heart would probably break. Fortunately, that was something Mycroft never had to worry about every again.

“And I desire the same for you, my dear. To be happy, to know that you are valued and cherished.”

This time it was Mycroft taking Greg’s lips in a kiss and this one notched up the heat level from a low, quiet simmer to something that had each man shifting slightly to give certain parts room to grow.

“Mycroft, we continue on like this and we won’t be making our stomachs very happy.”

“I believe they have the fortitude to postpone satisfaction for a short while. The rest of me, however, is finding its will tragically weak at the moment.”

Purely coincidentally, of course, Mycroft’s cock began rubbing against Greg’s in a manner that could only be termed pleading. Or demanding. Needy. Wanting. Eager. The throbbing and dripping bit was only a few steps behind in the queue but was considering a ninja strike to move to the front and start the proverbial ball rolling.

“You are insatiable, Mr. Holmes.”

“For some. Or, more specifically, for one.”

“You’re going to kill me, you know, with all your lustiness.”

“Is there a better way than a nerve-shredding orgasm to greet the end of one’s days?”

“Not that I can think of. Carry on and… can we do the wall thing again?”

“Most certainly. We can schedule it between the floor thing and the rather delightful bent over the footboard thing you enjoyed so greatly.”

“I’ve never been so excited about a full agenda as I am right now.”

“When one is the soulmate of a minor government official, the erotic potential of a properly scheduled day can never be underestimated.”


End file.
